gests that _I_ am responsible for his present misfortunes."

"He must be mad," I said, and I expect I spoke bitterly, for Isobel
lowered her eyes and her face flushed with embarrassment.

"Don't think that I condemn him," I added hastily, "but really in
justice to you, if not in order to clear his own good name, he should
speak out at once. Are you expecting to see him to-day?"

Isobel nodded.

"I am expecting him at almost any moment," she replied; then glancing
aside at a number of daily papers which lay littered upon the floor
beside the settee: "Of course you have seen what the press has to say
about it?" she added.

I nodded.

"What can you expect?" said I. "It is one of those cases in which
practically all the evidence, although it is of a purely
circumstantial nature, points to an innocent man as the culprit. I
feel very keenly annoyed with Coverly, for not only is he involving
both of you in a most unsavory case but he is also hindering the work
of justice. In fact by his inexplicable silence he is, although no
doubt unconsciously, affording the murderer time to elude the law."

Even as I spoke the words I heard a cab draw up in the street below,
and glancing out of the window, I saw Coverly alight from the cab, pay
the man and enter the doorway. His bearing was oddly furtive, that, as
I thought with a sudden pang, of a fugitive. A few moments later he
came into the room and his expression when he found me there was one
of marked hostility.

Eric Coverly bore no resemblance whatever to the deceased baronet from
whom he inherited the title, belonging as he did to quite another
branch of the family. Whereas Sir Marcus had been of a dark and sallow
type, Eric Coverly was one of those fair, fresh-colored, open-air
English types, handsome in an undistinguished way, and as a rule of a
light and careless disposition. There had never been any very close
sympathy between us, for the studies to which I devoted so much time
were by him regarded as frankly laughable absurdities. Although well
enough informed, he was typical of his class, and no one could justly
have catalogued him as an intellectual.

"Good morning, Addison," he said, having greeted Isobel in a
perfunctory fashion which I assumed to be accounted for by my
unwelcome presence. "The men of your Fleet Street tribe have conspired
to hang me, I see."

"Don't talk nonsense, Coverly," I said bruskly; "this misapprehension
is bound to arise if you decli